September 2011
Donald and the Truth
17 09 11 23:20 Filed in: My Life
When I was four or five years old in England, my brother and I each had a pet tortoise. Mine was named Donald; I don’t remember the name of his. I have no idea whose idea it was to have tortoises as pets or where they came from. They were pretty low maintenance pets, content to wander the back yard and munch whatever vegetation treats we provided - and they hid a lot.
After several days of the tortoises being in hiding, we found Donald nestled in a tortoise-created nest with a tortoise egg, a discovery that created no end of family excitement. Gender apparently had not been a consideration when the beasts were acquired. Others may have found it amusing, but my young mind was not bothered by the incongruity of Donald’s name and gender. (How do you tell with tortoises, anyway?) A parental phone call to the London zoo provided the needed information on the proper care of tortoise eggs. The egg was carefully placed in a box of sand, almost fully buried, and the box placed near the water heater where it would be warm.
My older brother, who loved all things living, took a proprietary interest in the egg. Never mind the fact that it was MY tortoise that had laid the thing; he was determined to care for the egg until it hatched - and probably long after. He checked the egg two or three times a day and ordered me to keep my clumsy fingers away from it. Which I didn’t. I regularly checked the egg as well, though never when my brother was around; I knew better.
It wasn’t long until the inevitable happened. I broke the egg. It was a disaster of major proportions. Fortunately, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Cover-up! I flushed the egg remnants along with some wet sand down the toilet without being discovered. Now all I had to do was find a substitute egg. A convenient ping-pong ball was the right shape, size and color, and I buried it carefully in the box of sand, smoothing the surface and leaving only a tiny bit of the ball showing. Nobody would ever know! Yes, I know that ping-pong balls don’t hatch, but at that tender age I had mastered the art of living in the present.
Days passed; I don’t remember how many, but it seemed like a lot. My brother continued faithfully checking on Donald’s egg and regularly reporting no progress. Then one day he exploded. Each time he checked the egg it rotated just a bit until finally the day arrived when he discovered “Made in Japan” stamped on the egg. He was livid; I was the picture of phony innocence. No, I had no idea how a ping-pong ball had gotten into the box. Maybe it had always been a ping-pong ball and never an egg! The truth hurt, and so I lied. What I was still learning was that no matter how painful the truth, it never hurts as much as a lie.
Those turtles at Coulon Park have become my friends. Every time I see them, I smile and I’m reminded to thank God for lessons learned - and to pray for people I know who are still learning.
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42 Years Later...
12 09 11 14:45 Filed in: My Life | Grief Notes
September 12, 1969 - it was a very good day! I’m marking this anniversary with memories of that day: The most beautiful bride I’d ever seen on the arm of the world’s most nervous father (by the time of the third wedding, he had it down pat, but this was his first).... The nervous but audible declaration of commitment.... The frozen facial muscles at the reception, unable to stop smiling (but who wanted to?).... The flat tire in Watts on the way to the Los Angeles airport for the last flight of the day to the San Francisco Bay area.... The Los Angeles police officer and deputy city attorney who had that tire changed in record time.... The unexpected and delightful embarrassment of being welcomed onboard Joan’s first-ever flight as newlyweds by a plane-load of amused applauding passengers (just how much of a scene did my family make trying to find out if we were REALLY booked on that flight?).... The beginning of a life together....
Quite honestly, there are parts of the day that I don’t remember. I know I went for a meditative drive that afternoon, praying about the dramatic change that was about to take place in my life, but I have no idea where I went, a memory lapse that amused Joan no end.
Our last few anniversaries together were complicated by two things. Celebrating the day after 9/11 could be a challenge and injected a sometimes muted tone to our celebration. And the annual fall school retreat, mandatory for faculty, frequently overlapped our anniversary. The incompatible retreat goals of discipleship and sleep deprivation sometimes delayed our anniversary - until my last year of teaching when I got smart enough to take Joan along. I’m pretty sure our last anniversary included a shared meal in the hospital ATU.
Til death do us part has not transformed September 12 into just another day on the calendar. Some of my friends and relatives notice the significance of this date, but most avoid mentioning it, not quite knowing what to say. Somehow “Happy anniversary” doesn’t quite seem right. However, the truth of the matter is that it IS joyful, if not happy as well.
My mind meanders through memories that trigger a marvelous mixture of smiles, tears, and gratitude. It is a very good day indeed!
10 Years Later...
11 09 11 13:05 Filed in: Reflections
A painful decade later I face the question, how has 9/11 altered your life? Some of the answers are obvious; when I fly I get to the airport a lot earlier. Others are less obvious but more significant. It is harder to ignore how indescribably evil sin is. To celebrate the wanton loss of innocent life for the sake of a lie is hard for me to fathom. That’s the bad news, but there is a good news side to it as well. If I begin to grasp how awful evil is, then I also begin to explore the unreachable depths of God’s grace, a grace that is greater than the awfulness of sin - even the awfulness of 9/11.
Evil has not diminished. The world is no better than it was ten years ago; it is still a mess. But God is not diminished either. And until I trade in this world for the next, I choose to rest in His unfailing love.
99%
03 09 11 21:46 Filed in: My Life | Reflections
I admire my GPS. Ninety-nine percent of the time she is accurate, and I have gotten used to relying on her. So when I headed south two and a half weeks ago, I went with the “lighten my load” theme and left the maps at home. Maggie, my faithful GPS, would get me where I needed to go. And she did - most of the time.
Unfortunately for me, she experienced a few days when she had trouble finishing well. The first day, for example, she waited until I was quarter of a mile beyond my hosts before telling me with undeserved confidence, “You have arrived.” I had actually arrived a few moments earlier, but apparently neither of us noticed.
I hoped it was a momentary aberration not to be repeated. After all, she had been accurate all day (granted that was when I actually knew where I was going and didn’t need her directions). However, she was not done playing with my mind. The second day she wanted me to arrive via the street behind where I was to stay. I’m pretty sure there was no “climb over the back wall” option on the GPS, but she seemed to think it would be a good idea. Then there was the day she announced, “When possible make a legal u-turn” while I was driving down the freeway.
On the way home I planned to spend a night at the Super 8 in Crescent City, a destination supposedly known to Maggie. I had forgiven her for telling me to make a u-turn on the freeway and was confident she could get us to a place in her memory bank. “You have arrived,” she announced, at the bottom of the hill coming into Crescent City. I looked, but there was nothing - and I mean nothing - on either side of the highway. “In your dreams!” I told her and kept driving. Half a mile further along I found the Super 8 without Maggie’s help. I asked the guy at the desk if they had moved the motel recently. He looked at me like I was crazy.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I repent of likening my GPS to the Holy Spirit. When it comes to divine guidance, 99% is not good enough. Maggie may fail me; He won’t.
Unfortunately for me, she experienced a few days when she had trouble finishing well. The first day, for example, she waited until I was quarter of a mile beyond my hosts before telling me with undeserved confidence, “You have arrived.” I had actually arrived a few moments earlier, but apparently neither of us noticed.
I hoped it was a momentary aberration not to be repeated. After all, she had been accurate all day (granted that was when I actually knew where I was going and didn’t need her directions). However, she was not done playing with my mind. The second day she wanted me to arrive via the street behind where I was to stay. I’m pretty sure there was no “climb over the back wall” option on the GPS, but she seemed to think it would be a good idea. Then there was the day she announced, “When possible make a legal u-turn” while I was driving down the freeway.
On the way home I planned to spend a night at the Super 8 in Crescent City, a destination supposedly known to Maggie. I had forgiven her for telling me to make a u-turn on the freeway and was confident she could get us to a place in her memory bank. “You have arrived,” she announced, at the bottom of the hill coming into Crescent City. I looked, but there was nothing - and I mean nothing - on either side of the highway. “In your dreams!” I told her and kept driving. Half a mile further along I found the Super 8 without Maggie’s help. I asked the guy at the desk if they had moved the motel recently. He looked at me like I was crazy.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I repent of likening my GPS to the Holy Spirit. When it comes to divine guidance, 99% is not good enough. Maggie may fail me; He won’t.